


Stolen Memories

by Annabelle_W



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s15e09 The Trap, F/M, First Time, Flashbacks, M/M, POV First Person, Season/Series 15, Stanford Era (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-22 12:46:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22563625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabelle_W/pseuds/Annabelle_W
Summary: Castiel has slowly been regaining the memories Naomi erased.  Mostly, they're informative, filling holes he sensed in his background.  Then one pops up that seems to involve a much younger Sam, who appears to intimately know Cas.  And, is he wearing a female vessel?  Is this real?  How and when could it have happened?  And why was it stolen from him?
Relationships: Castiel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49





	1. Kissing Eileen

**Author's Note:**

> I normally stay away from gender swap stories, but Castiel canonically used female vessels in the past, which means that, if he met Sam at Stanford, he would probably be wearing one.  
> Plus, all of the present time scenes will involve our very male, Jimmy-suited Cas.

Castiel's POV:  
2020

I march towards the war room, needing to find Sam, to check him over once more, make certain that Chuck didn't leave him with any wounds--at least, any fleshly, heal-able wounds. I know my powers are fading, leaving me weaker than I've been since reclaiming (what was left of) my grace from Metatron, but I can still cure simple injuries, maybe even deep ones. And. And I'm worried about my friend. He looked so broken when Dean and I found him in that casino.

There are some ailments not even the most powerful archangel can ameliorate. 

And I am so very far from that.

I slip through the doorway, stop short, stare.

Sam cups Eileen's face, bends down to press his lips to hers, his eyes dropping shut as one hand buries itself in the curtains of her dark hair. He pulls back briefly, leans in to kiss her again. They stand closely together for another moment, foreheads nearly touching as they gaze into each other's eyes.

I step silently backwards, recognizing that my presence would be unwelcome, that what I just watched should have been private.

I start to smile, happy that one of my two closest friends has found love. Life is so fleeting for humans that it brings me joy to see-

A headache crashes into me, murdering my serenity, and bringing with it . . . an image of . . . Sam? . . . I think. I clutch my head, focus. This must be a returning memory. Now that Naomi no longer reprograms me every couple of years, I've been slowly regaining the events and people she stole from my brain. It appears that angelic mind wipes are only permanent so long as they are continually updated. A result, perhaps, of grace constantly restoring and recharging.

The pain dissipates as the image solidifies. Definitely Sam. But. So much younger, so much lighter than I've ever seen him. Curly bangs fall into dewy, unlined eyes, shadow a face smooth and soft with the roundness of youth, draw the eye downward to a pair of lips fuller and redder than those of the man I know but the same recognizable shape. Shorter hair, narrower shoulders, a different style of clothing. There's something about his shirt . . . . I pause, focus. He's wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt with a word printed on the front. Stanford.

My eyes pop wide. How can I possibly have a memory of Sam from his college years?

*

I meander into the kitchen, plop onto a stool beside Dean, still contemplating my vision. Dean nods at me, says "Hey," continues silently imbibing alcohol. His handsome features reveal no anger, no resentment, not even much awkwardness. Good. Our reconciliation holds.

The Sam from years ago pushes his bangs off his face in a still-habitual gesture, leans closer, gazing at me (tenderly?) with limpid eyes. His hands curve around my chin to sink into my (long?) hair as his eyes drop to my lips and he pulls me closer to . . . to kiss me.

I gasp.

Dean sets down his glass, peers at me. "You okay?"

I find that I feel no inclination to share this discovery with my best friend (not yet, anyway), so I merely shrug, comment, "It's been a difficult day."

He picks up his tumbler, takes a long sip. "You got that right." He's clearly thinking of our stagnating situation with my father, and likely also stressing about Sam--though clearly not for the same reasons.

I hunch over, allow the table to take most of my weight. Why would Naomi take a meeting with Sam away from me, when she knew--when she must have known--how likely it was that one day I would be assigned to watch over the Righteous Man, which was always going to require interacting with his brother? Maybe. Maybe she wanted me to forget that kiss? But why not simply excise that or-

Sam stumbles into the kitchen. He and Dean embark on one of those conversations where they're so focused on each other, they forget my presence, which allows me to study the younger hunter. Glints of grey sparkle in the mane that falls nearly to his wide shoulders. His eyes glimmer with decades of guilt and sorrow and knowledge and love. His lips compress as he holds in his emotion, trying to remain stoic, even as he looks to his brother for strength. A layer of deliberate stubble adds texture to a face the years have sculpted into breathtaking beauty.

I study my folded hands. Perhaps it is not so strange that my past self fell for this man.

*

2003

It feels glorious to be back in Heaven after so long stationed on Earth. I can stretch my wings, unfold my cramped body, smell the unpolluted air, visit the most peaceful afterlives. And. It's a minor issue, but, while I am comfortable in female vessels, I never feel quite myself in them.

When I was a fledgling, I wondered why we angels were created male and female when we cannot reproduce. It seemed nonsensical. Pointless. Just an arbitrary classification. Our true forms don't even differ all that much. Males are more muscular, females sleeker. The blue of our wings has a slightly greenish cast, while that of the females runs nearly purple. No breasts or genitalia. Humans would say we look like sexless winged giants.

And yet.

When given a choice, we gravitate to hosts who sexes match our own. We learned millennia ago that only a male angel wearing a male human can father a nephilim and only a female in a female can carry one. 

So angelic gender affects illicit reproduction.

"Castiel."

A voice startles me from my thoughts. It must belong to the angel who summoned me, so I straighten my posture, fold hands behind my back (beneath my wings), dip my head.

"I am Naomi," the voice informs me. I look up to find a tall, powerful female, wearing the appearance of a human woman in her forties or fifties with a sweet face and hard eyes. 

Something niggles me, a thought or idea I can't place, can't focus on, that hints I should know this angel, should fear her. I keep my body still, my visage emotionless. "You wanted to see me?"

She nods. "Your vessel is female, correct?"

"Yes. From a distant branch of the Novak line." I located her at a hippy commune in the late sixties. She found the use of drugs--especially psychedelics--to be a religious experience, making her prayers to angels entirely sincere. The girl welcomed my entrance with tears of joy.

A quick flick of an eyebrow. "Let me see her."

I rearrange the molecules around me to form the likeness of my vessel. Small, slender, long dark hair, big grey eyes. Actual human bodies are too dense for heaven, so we either have to leave them (and go through the process of getting another yes when we return to Earth) or temporarily deposit them in the plane of existence where we keep our wings. When we're not in Heaven. Most angels choose to retain the look of their vessels while here, just in case they must interact with humans. It helps run Heaven smoothly, I'm told.

Naomi slowly circles me, examines me from all angles. "Pretty," she concludes. "How old is she?"

"She had just turned nineteen when I met her." And barring unusual levels of stress, she will remain nineteen for as long as I occupy her body.

A militaristic nod. "Perfect," she declares. "And women's fashion has come full circle since the sixties, so there will be no need to alter your attire."

I glance down at the flared jeans, white tee, and tan jacket I've worn since acquiring this body. "Perfect for what?"

"For college. Your next assignment is at Stanford University. I need you to observe a student there." She pauses to look sternly down at me--my vessel stands several inches shorter than hers--and purses her lips. "A young man. Tell me everything he does, every person he interacts with."

It's not unusual for an angel to guard a human. In fact, plenty of my compatriots choose guardianship as a full occupation. But I am a soldier and this sounds more like information-gathering than protection. "What young man?"

A grimace of disgust. "Sam Winchester."


	2. First Meeting

Sam's POV:  
2003

Brady blathers on about some leggy blonde goddess who I--apparently--just have to meet, as we skirt the quad while heading in the direction of the library. "She's gorgeous and smart--did I tell you she's studying to be a nurse practitioner?--and fun. You could use some fun . . . ."

I tune him out. A month ago, Brady and I were kissing frantically behind one of the dorm halls. I thought our friendship was moving into a new and more exciting territory, but I guess Brady missed that he's the only pretty blond I'm interested in at the moment (generally, I prefer brunettes), or maybe he's using the existence of this Jess chick to make it very clear he feels nothing romantic for me. (He certainly can't make an argument that he feels--or felt--nothing sexual, not when I haven't forgotten that rapid pulse, those desperate moans, or that unmistakable hardness pressed against my thigh).

I reflexively catch a frisbee flying towards us before my brain processes that we've wandered to close to someone's game. "Sorry!" I call out before flinging the projectile at a pair of raised hands.

There's a snort beside me. "Are you apologizing for being good at everything?" Brady's been bizarrely fixated on my athletic abilities recently.

I start to point out that I have many deficiencies (my father could give him a long list, if he still acknowledged my existence), when I sense a piercing gaze upon me. A girl cocks her head at me, causing her dark hair to fall gracefully over her slender shoulder. She squints, as if curious or perplexed, her face otherwise blank. It's a lovely face, I realize: clear tan skin, delicate features, round eyes.

I take an involuntary step closer to her.

"Winchester! Come play with us!" Another frisbee zips over to me.

I catch it, suppressing a flinch. I will never get used to being called by my last name. "Winchester" is my father, and his name gets shouted by other dirty flannel-wearers, generally because they need his help finding and killing something nasty.

The girl pushes her hair off her face, studies the orange disk in my hands.

"Do you want to play, too?" I ask her.

Grey eyes flash to my face. "I have never played with a . . . ." She blinks.

"Frisbee," I supply.

"Yes. I have never played with a frisbee." She squints at me again. I get the impression I'm not behaving in a way she expects. Or is used to? Strange. I would think boys would line up eagerly to teach her any sport she showed the least interest in.

I grin. "It's easy. Come on." I back up into the field claimed by the frisbee players. She follows. "Oh, hey, what's your name?"

A pause. Did her parents tell her not to give out her identity to strangers or something? "Um. It's . . . . My name is Cat." She holds out her hand, adorably formal.

I shake it. "I'm Sam."

I turn to tell Brady we can study some other time, but he's gone. So completely absent I almost wonder if he learned how to teleport.

*

2020

I throw down my book in irritation. St. Augustine's insights are unhelpful for our situation, to say the least. So are all the religious works. Maybe I should study the atheists instead, or, better yet, just give up. What's the point?--Chuck said himself he's done with this world. He'll end it no matter what I do or say.

And I keep hearing the Dean from my vision saying "We lost" on repeat. 

I need to get out of here.

Sometimes I wish I smoked, so I would have an excuse to just relax outside for several minutes. But, even if I didn't think smoking is absolutely disgusting, I really don't need to add another addiction to my functional alcoholism and why am I even thinking about this?

I rub out a burgeoning headache, decide to just go for a run.

*

I bump into Cas when I emerge from my room after changing into athletic wear. His eyes glide slowly up and down my body but his face remains as closed, as imperturbable as ever. When his gaze concludes its travels at my face, he asks, "May I accompany you?"

I startle. Cas has never shown any interest in working out. (It's not like he needs to, given a body that remains trim and fit thanks to the grace animating it). "Um, sure."

I can't help the sidelong glances I keep throwing him as we head through the Bunker and out the door. I failed him (and Dean) again; why does he want to spend any time with me?--Especially in a way he never has before.

We walk out the door to find Dean leaning against the bricks, enjoying a cancer stick. A chuckle escapes me as I recall my earlier thoughts.

Cas raises an eyebrow. "That's not normally your reaction when you catch Dean smoking."

Dean notices us, hastily stomps out his cig, mumbling something about how it was only one, Sam. (Am I really that bad of a nagger?) "Hey, Cas," he greets our friend. "You need me for something?"

Cas straightens, says proudly, "I'm going on a run with Sam."

Dean glances at me, then back at Cas. "Dressed like that?"

Good point. Our angel is still garbed in suit, tie, dress shoes, and trench coat. Not exactly workout attire.

Cas looks down at himself, frowns. "Why would I dress differently?"

Dean steps forward. "Well, Cas, people who get sweaty and stinky for recreational purposes usually-"

I cut him off. "Let's just go." I take off, unsurprised to find Cas easily keeping pace with me, his coat flapping behind him like a tan cape. He still projects an air of confusion, however, so I inform him, "Runners and other athletes wear special clothes to stay comfortable while working out."

Brows still knitted, Cas replies, "But I am comfortable."

I nod. "Exactly. You're an angel, so you're comfortable, but that's not true for humans." Still, I find myself attempting to picture Cas in workout clothes, maybe shorts and a tee-shirt. What does he look like under all those layers? Would the shirt stretch over lean muscle, the shorts reveal shapely legs?

Cas jogs in silence for several minutes before commenting abruptly, "You rarely mention your time at Stanford."

I hesitate. My decision to leave the family business to attend college was a point of contention between Dean and me for so long that keeping silent on the subject was a habit by the time my brother forgave me and began to show signs of understanding and pride instead of resentment. But also, "For years my memories of Stanford were colored by the guilt and grief I felt over Jess. Still feel, sometimes. And then, right when I started to have more pleasant memories about the place, I found out Brady--my best friend at the time--got possessed by a demon and I didn't even notice." 

Cas uses my pause to query, "So that time is just too painful to talk about?"

"Not anymore." I realize as I speak how true this is. "I guess I'm just accustomed to not talking about it. But I think about those days often. Especially lately, when everything seems so bleak." I slow down as we round a corner. "It's almost like remembering someone else's life." I shake my head. "It's hard to believe I really taught a girl how to play Ultimate Frisbee instead of how to protect herself from werewolves or vampires or whatever."

The angel stops, his huge blue eyes popping even rounder even as his pretty face remains inscrutable under the dappled shadows of the trees. But he only says, "That seems . . . very specific."

"I was thinking about that--her--today. I'm not sure why." I'm also not sure why I'm suddenly fixated on the tiny lock of black hair curling over Castiel's forehead--I haven't been this struck by his (or Jimmy's?) beauty in close to a decade.

His eyes drop to the leaf-strewn dirt path. "Well, I'm here any time you want to reminisce." He starts running again, but I don't miss the faint smile that crosses his face.

I wonder if there's something he's not telling me.


	3. Coffee

Castiel's POV:  
2003

Sam draws me into a small building with two windowed walls, unusually high tables with stools surrounding them, couches perched close to armchairs, a long counter with chrome machines behind it, and a large board above the counter covered in words and prices and small drawings. Oh!--This is a restaurant devoted to serving caffeinated beverages. 

The tall boy escorts me over to the only empty couch, asks, "What would you like?"

"Coffee" seems like a safe response.

He chuckles. "Okay. Any specifications for your coffee?"

What do humans put in their drinks? A quick sniff of the warm, scented air reveals an answer. "Milk, sugar, cinnamon, and vanilla." At least, those seem to be the most common additives.

Sam doesn't seem too perturbed, so my answer must not be entirely out of the ordinary. "Be right back," he says, dimpling charmingly.

Where did that thought come from? Sam Winchester is an abomination, with a dark fate tied to the demon blood flowing through his system. There are rumors that, one day, Hell itself will bow down to him. My mission here is to see if he's begun traveling down that spiraling path. I should not find the kid in any way appealing. 

"Here." Sam hands me a white cup with a strip of brown cardboard around the center and 'Cat' written on the side. "Hope I got it right." His shapely lips quirk nervously; he dips his head until dark curls obscure his gently-slanted eyes.

I remove the lid from my cup, take a sip. I shouldn't be disappointed to find that--like all human foods and drinks--it tastes like molecules. Still, the liquid is hot and thick and creamy and it smells incredible. Also . . . . A subtle zing speeds up my heart rate as the caffeine affects me to the limited degree it can. I close my eyes, savor the unfamiliar experience.

"Good?" Sam bites his lip, regards me hopefully with eyes somehow twice the size they are normally. One of them captures the green shade of the couch he just slid onto, while the other maintains the grey of his hoodie. Fascinating.

"It is good," I reply, trying desperately to think of something else to say. Don't humans show appreciation for each other? "Thank you." His eyes really are beautiful, with their unique shape and ever-changing color. What an impressive specimen of my father's creation. The thought makes me smile.

He smiles back, dimples popping, eyes glowing, cheeks flushing. "So, what are you studying?"

I had time to prepare for this question, because it seems to be the standard getting-to-know-you question that college students ask each other. "Divinity." It's not even a lie, since the contemplation of the divine is a central component of an angel's existence. 

"Wow," he breathes. He gives an appreciative once-over, gaze lingering a moment too long on my lips and chest. "Beautiful and brilliant," he murmurs, voice barely above a sigh and clearly not meant to be perceived. (And wouldn't have been, did I not possess angelic hearing).

I bask in his admiration, enjoying the warmth of his regard. Until his eyes once again stray to my vessel's curves. He's attracted to her feminine body, her soft voice; even the name he calls me belongs to her. (She shortened Catherine to Cat when she left home).

I'm not her. I'm not human. I'm not even the right gender.

And I really shouldn't care what the Boy with the Demon Blood thinks of me.

*

2020

Sam meets me in the kitchen, his shower-damp hair dripping onto the maroon plaid stretched across his broad shoulders. He pulls two bottles of beer from the fridge, pushes one across the table to me. "Not the healthiest after-run drink, but" he shrugs "I already hydrated."

I hide a smile. Winchesters and their beer. The one vice the very different brothers have in common. My gaze drifts to the well-used coffee maker roosting on the counter, as my brain reminds me of all the times Sam and Dean have presented each other steaming mugs in the mornings. Guess they share more than one vice. My lips curve at the thought.

Sam's answering smile morphs into a self-deprecating laugh. He ducks his head, letting his hair flop over his face, hide his gorgeous features from my view. For a moment, he looks like the shy boy I met seventeen years ago.

I blink.

The lined, tanned, handsome visage of a thirty-six-year-old warrior swims back into sight. I realize that I owe it to my friend to inform him of our liaison from nearly two decades ago, when we were both younger and, in many ways, naive. "Sam," I begin-

The Bunker door screeches open, startling us both. When did the two of us lean so far over the table our noses nearly touched? How long have we been staring into each other's eyes?

Dean saunters into the kitchen, slams a pizza box on the table, where there is suddenly an enormous amount of space between us. "One extra-large Meat Blasters," he announces, "And one side salad for the weirdo who doesn't get that pizza is a complete meal by itself."

Sam glares at his brother. "Dean."

And, just like that, Sam's focus is entirely on Dean, leaving me, once again, on the periphery.


	4. First

Sam's POV:  
2003

My phone rings as I'm jogging down the dorm stairs. I don't especially want to talk to Brady--What has been with him, lately?--but I answer anyway. "Hey, bro."

He speaks over a background roar of chattering voices and clattering silverware. "Hey, where are you?" Without waiting for an answer, he continues, "You should come join us for lunch. Jess is here. You could finally meet her."

Again with Jess. "I have plans. Sorry."

A long enough pause that I would wonder if he hung up if it wasn't for the din coming across the line. "Don't tell me it's with that chick you met yesterday." Scorn bleeds through the phone. He's really developed a bit of a mean streak.

"Yes, it is," I say through my teeth. "She's hot and sweet and different than anyone I've ever met."

He mutters, "She's different, all right." Louder, he adds, "You should stay away from her."

I swallow angry, profanity-laden protestations about Cat's unique charm and undeniable cuteness; I don't want to end a two-year friendship over a girl--especially when it's still so new for me to retain friends for longer than a few weeks. "Whatever, man. I'll see you in Astronomy tonight." I hang up, slam the phone closed, thrust it into my hoodie pocket.

When I look up, Cat is there, standing scant inches from me, regarding me curiously, with head cocked. When did she arrive?--She wasn't there a moment ago, I'm sure of it. No. There can't be anything strange here. I left that behind when I came to Stanford. She is just an ordinary college student. (Like me?)

I greet her with a smile.

*

I take her to the student art show. It's free, but bringing a girl there makes me look cultured and sensitive. I hope. Not so long ago, Brady would have commended my genius idea for an almost date.

Cat examines a blurry nude painting, a frown between her eyes. "Why doesn't the blonde woman have nipples?" she asks.

I laugh. It's true!--The artist neglected to use much detail in the chest area. Out of discomfort, maybe? "And her partner doesn't seem to have much going on down south." I point at the smudge where the male model's groin should be.

She squints at me. After an elongated few seconds, during which she could almost be listening to something I can't hear, her eyes brighten (literally?) and her lips curve upwards.  
"Maybe the art student was shy about painting private areas." A flash of mischief lights her face.

I can't resist.

Slowly, I reach out to trace her chin, brush a few stray strands dark tresses off her forehead. When she doesn't move, I bend down and press my lips to hers. Her mouth opens with a gasp, so I deepen the kiss, burying my hands in her soft hair. She moans, winds her arms around my neck.

Heaven. This is heaven.

I pull her small form tightly against my body, luxuriate in the feel of her soft curves pressing into me.

Then.

A sound like wings flapping and I'm holding no one. Nothing.

I open my eyes, look around. She's gone, not just gone from my arms but gone from the room, the building.

I never see her again.

*

2020

I yawn, close my book. The battle of Helm's Deep is probably my favorite scene in The Two Tours, but the letters were starting to swirl into illegible patterns, meaning it's well past time I went to sleep.

Dean passes my room as I'm reaching to turn out my lamp, says, "Night, Sammy," barely pausing on his way to his own chamber.

I allow myself a slight smile at my big brother's protective impulse to check on me before heading to bed. Some things don't change no matter how old we grow.

And some things do.

My eyebrows rise of their own accord when Cas slips into my room. His black hair sticks up in all directions like he's been running his fingers through it and his blue tie is even more crooked than usual. Sapphire eyes dart furtively down the hallway (looking for Dean?) before he quietly shuts the door.

Exhaustion drifts away on the breeze of curiosity.

The angel cautiously crosses my small room, perches on the desk chair beside my bed. He peers at me, crystalline eyes wide and luminescent. 

When he remains silent, I ask, "Can I do something for you, Cas?"

He ducks his head briefly. I think I catch a glimpse of angelic grace in his gaze when he looks back up. (Brought out by strong emotions?) "I've been getting back the memories that Naomi erased."

I sit up, intrigued. "You can do that?--You know, we--humans--can't. When our memories are taken, they're gone forever." Lisa's face flashes across my mind, followed by Dean's devastation over having himself excised from her brain. I shudder.

He nods. "Yes. As you know, our grace slowly replenishes. The same happens with our minds, if they're left alone for long enough."

The possibilities are endlessly fascinating: I immediately start contemplating the events that were deemed to dangerous for an angel to recall. The massacre of the original nephilim. Sodom and Gomorrah. The Egyptian plagues. And those are just the ones that have passed down through history. What else could there be?-

"You were in one of mine." He speaks in a rush, deep voice more growly than usual.

Naomi was still often and actively reprogramming Cas when I was going through the Trials, so there easily could be many shared experiences of ours stolen from him. Somehow, though, I think my friend refers to a different situation--something unusual, something particular to the two of us. It hits me. "Cat."

"She was my vessel in 2003." He speaks lowly, almost hesitantly.

My face blazes as I recall kissing Cat, my brain helpfully superimposing an image of Castiel in her (his?) place. I made out with my best friend. That. That's just . . . .

"Embarrassing." Cas speaks my thoughts. Did he read my mind? "It's embarrassing. But I thought you had a right to know, since we were intimate."

That is not the correct connotation of the word. My skin burns hotter as I picture the two of us entangled in an act of true intimacy, the angel's legs wrapped around me and his nails scratching my back as I pound into him. I clear my throat. "I'm glad you told me," I rasp.

Blue eyes drop. One tanned hand rises to rub the back of his neck. "You're welcome. I . . . I'll just-" He stands abruptly.

I grasp his wrist. "Wait. It's a good memory. For me. I liked Cat." I swallow. "But. Just. Could you just tell me what happened to her? You? She disappeared so suddenly."

Cas sits back down. This time next to me on the bed. I slide my hand from his wrist to grasp his, hoping he won't pull away, and secretly exulting when he doesn't. 

He starts to talk.


	5. Then and Now

Castiel's POV:  
2003

I touch my lips, smear the dampness that Sam's questing mouth left upon them, prod the swollen plumpness created by the pressure of Sam's kiss.

Sam's kiss.

Sam.

So beautiful, so compassionate, so pure, somehow, despite the taint of demon blood darkening the edges of his sparkling soul. His touch ignited my grace, escalated my heart rate, caused my vessel's nether regions to grow moist and wanting. In fact, my body still aches for his caress, still longs to join with him. Begs me to return to him, insists I should never have cowardly flown away from him. But I had to--I had to escape this . . . this . . . .

Lust.

I'm experiencing lust for the first time in my eons of existence. How do I begin to process such iniquity?

"Angel!" a low voice growls, startling me from my racy, illicit thoughts.

I'm not surprised to find a demon glowering at me. Infernal energy permeates the Stanford campus, almost certainly because the denizens of Hell keep an eye on (my) Sam Winchester. Rage unfurls within me. "Begone, demon," I declare. "Leave Sam Winchester's friend and return to the pit if you do not wish to be smited."

The foul creature wearing Brady's form laughs. "You first." He sets afire a small package and lobs it at me.

Agony. Unadulterated pain as my vessel disintegrates, burns into ash. I must have been hit with a weapon made with holy fire.

The world blasts white.

*

I wake up in Naomi's office. I still bear Cat's shape, but I sense that both she and her body--the body Sam seemed to so greatly appreciate--are gone. I shift my grace into my own true form, even as I shed a metaphorical tear for my sweet, innocent vessel. "Cat?" I ask my superior, "Is she . . . ?" I can't bring myself to say the words.

Naomi folds her (human-appearing) hands. "You will be happy to know Catherine's heaven looks like her favorite hallucinogenic trip." She grimaces, nose twitching in disgust. "It's full of pink clouds and candy grass and flying plush animals."

A relieved sigh whooshes out of me. "May I visit her?"

Her face remains inscrutable. "No."

My eyes drop, hiding my disrespectful anger, my rebellious desire to insist that I grew very fond of Cat during our decades together and, therefore, I have the right to check on her. "Very well. James Novak is an appropriate age for a vessel and a devout Catholic. I will seek him out." I start to stand.

Naomi holds out a hand to stop me. "Not yet." She rises, circles her desk. "In fact, your altercation with the demon might be a blessing in disguise. You were growing too close to your charge."

My grace flares as I vividly recall Sam rubbing one thumb over my cheekbone while his tongue explored my (vessel's) mouth.

Naomi notices my reaction to her accusation, nods to herself. "I think it's time to give you a new assignment. You will join your garrison in policing Hell's borders. You won't need a vessel for that."

No vessel means no interacting with Sam, should I ever get the chance to fly to Stanford. 

Naomi raises an eyebrow. Just how much of my musings is my outward form giving away? She steps closer. "Looks like you'll need more that basic reprogramming this time. I'll have to do a full erasure."

All of my eyes widen. "What does that mean?"

She lifts what looks like a giant syringe. "That means you won't remember Sam or Catherine." She leans forward. "Or--this time--me."

I freeze.

Naomi places one hand on my chest. "Lie back and close your eyes."

I obey my superior officer like the soldier I am.

*

2020

I finish speaking while staring down at my hands folded on my lap. I feel Sam shuffling restlessly on the bed beside me, so I gather my courage and look up to see his countenance. 

Slanted hazel eyes (capturing the blue from his flannel) meet mine. He glances away, huffs a breath. "Well. That's one mystery from my life solved."

"I couldn't tell you who I really was," I inform him, in case he's upset about my long-ago deception. Human behavior still often befuddles me.

"I understand that. It's just . . . ." He stops, plays with a loose string on the knee of his jeans. "You flew away when I kissed you. Did I . . . ? Was it . . . ?" He gulps, then steadies himself. "I need to know if my kiss was unwanted."

Oh. He thinks I left because I felt forced. "Sam," I begin, reaching over to place one of my hands on top of his, "I flew away because I was experiencing emotions that were unfamiliar to me. Human emotions. I didn't know how to respond to them. Or to you."

He flips his hand over to clasp mine. "So . . . was it real? For you?" He trembles with nerves or anticipation. Does this mean he still cares for me--in that way--even though I no longer possess the form of a woman?

Instead of answering with words, I rise up onto my knees and press my lips to his.

He pulls back with a grin. "So, that's a yes?"

"Yes."

Sam gets a very thorough, extended workout instead of sleeping for the remainder of the night.


End file.
